


All We Do Is Win

by E_Salvatore



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: Amy/Bumper (mentioned), F/M, Warning: here be poor writing and tons of shipping, tiny bits of Beca/Jesse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-05 23:50:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4199766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/E_Salvatore/pseuds/E_Salvatore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the Bellas win the championship, Kommissar and Pieter try to win back each other’s hearts and DSM wins another riff-off because come on, you can’t invite the world’s best acapella groups to an after party and not expect a riff-off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All We Do Is Win

_It must be the yogurt_ , Kommissar muses as she watches Pieter dart around the crowded confines of the tent, jumping from one reporter to the next. He’s in charge of foreign media while she handles the German presses and so far, he’s done an admirable job of distracting them from the evening’s unexpected turn. Pieter amuses the English-speaking reporters with his made-up sayings and bonds with the non-English speakers over the heated mess the language is, and she hasn’t heard a single one of them ask him about the championship’s outcome. Of course, it could just be that the serious questions are being drowned out by the laughter Pieter draws from his audience.

“- members of your team were prepared for this outcome?” The young reporter – her name is Bella and Kommissar hasn’t decided if that’s worthy of a chuckle – asks, her wide eyes trained on DSM’s leader. Thankfully, her distraction is easily masked.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite hear you just then,” She makes a show of leaning in closer as another round of cheers erupts, this time from outside the tent where the Bellas are holding court. It’s been nearly an hour since they got their hands on the coveted trophy and they’ve yet to leave the stage, choosing instead to usher reporters and fans up to join them. The reporter blinks and struggles to form a coherent sentence as Kommissar invades her personal space.

“Um, well,” Bella squints at the little scrap of paper in her hands, trying to make out the hastily scrawled questions she’d prepared after the announcement. “Heading into tonight’s performance as three-time world champions, would you say the members of your team were prepared for this outcome?”

Kommissar adopts a thoughtful look. “We did not acknowledge this out loud, but I think this was always a possibility. The Bellas have a history of being underdogs and overcoming all obstacles to emerge victorious, after all,” Perhaps… if she paints things in a different light. “And after all they’ve been through this year, what a shame it would have been to return empty-handed. I think they worked very hard to redeem themselves, and this was a fitting reward.” A reward, as if the title is merely a pat on the head for a group of reformed children. She can change the narrative, rewrite the story before it’s even printed. DSM had no need for the trophy, not this year. And with the Bellas’ future and legacy at stake, well, DSM had just so graciously stepped aside. It is a good story, but Kommissar wonders if it’s subtle enough. The last thing she wants is to sound patronizing, or bitter and sarcastic.

But those are subtle, complex things and this young girl doesn’t seem to pick up on the possibilities. “Oh, yes,” She nods, jotting down a note in her illegible scribble. “Underdogs, of course. And who can resist those?” It is unclear if she expects an answer or if the question is directed at herself.

“I do worry,” Kommissar sighs, laying it on a bit thick. “For our newer recruits, however.” Bella’s eyes snap up to meet hers. “DSM is very hard on its members, but most see our grueling training regime as a small price to pay. These younger ones though, I believe they need validation. You know how it can be, yes?” She smiles warmly, as if seeking the girl’s empathy. The reporter nods and babbles on, but Kommissar is just relieved that she’s covered their asses if her singers decide to be drunken, bitter fools tonight. It will not reflect badly on all of them, not with her careful words to distance the leadership from its young, disappointed disciples. Children, acting out and throwing tantrums. No one will make a big deal out of that.

Bella seems poised to fire another question at her – and really, how many more can there be left on her tiny piece of paper? Did the girl not get the memo about keeping it short? – but the Bellas finally decide to vacate the stage, and the embarrassing one with no respect for public decency jogs by faster than Kommissar would have expected, hollering something about the after party and her willingness to sign… well, either her English is worse than Pieter’s or she’s about to risk some serious sexual harassment lawsuits.

“On that note,” Pieter says, standing closer than he normally does. It takes her a few seconds to place his voice after hearing him speak in English all evening; he sounds so much more composed and mature in their native tongue. She successfully ignores the urge to jump in surprise and tries to remember the last time he managed to sneak up on her. Well, at least Bella seems just as surprised. “I think it is time for us to get going, yes?”

Thankfully, Pieter’s more direct approach is not as lost on the girl as her own hints had been. “Oh, yes, of course,” Bella blurts out, her eyes keenly trained on the nearly non-existent distance between the two founding members of DSM. There have been so many rumors over the years, even they have lost track of the stories. The last she heard, Pieter had nearly choked on his yogurt one morning when one of their beatboxers read aloud from a tabloid that documented his torrid affair with nearly all of DSM’s male members. The thought still causes a laugh to bubble in her throat, but she chokes it down and offers the reporter a smile instead as the young girl promises to continue their conversation at the party.

“So help me if I have to bear through another _second_ of that,” Kommissar hisses as they blend into the crowd and make a quiet exit out of the main tent. Pieter lifts the flap of the dressing tent and trails in after her.

“She must be new. Everyone knows the press isn’t allowed inside the after party,” He reminds her as she runs through a mental check-list, noting the number of DSM duffel bags left in one corner. There are no more than ten bags, lined up in two rows of five, which means at least half of the team has left and they’ve taken their equipment with them. She shoulders her own bag, identical to the others save for the plain luggage tag attached to it. If one were to look closely enough, they would be able to make out five uneven, slightly slanted letters buried under thick streaks of black marker. Under the unsightly mark, the title _Kommissar_ is printed neatly in block letters. She wonders why she never did get around to replacing the tag.

Pieter’s tag dangles from his bag, with the same slanted handwriting and slightly faded edges. She doesn’t think much of it and declares instead that she’s ready to leave. Together, they leave behind the festival grounds and proceed to walk to their hotel. It is not far, thankfully, because the only mode of transportation available tonight is the shuttle bus the acapella league had organized, and she has no interest in sharing a ride with taunting rivals or overeager fans. Pieter walks close enough that his body heat makes her uncomfortable, overly warm as she is under all this leather. He swings his arm and brushes against her a number of times, but she chooses to let it slide and remains silent until they reach the hotel.

“The party starts in forty-seven minutes,” She notes as Pieter closes the door behind them, her eyes seeking out the digital clock by her side of the bed. “I am going to take a shower. I can make it fast if you want to use-”

“Is that it, then?” Pieter cuts her off mid-sentence, throwing his bag to the ground. “After everything you’ve put into the group, this is how you react to our loss?”

She can’t remember the last time Pieter interrupted her. They have a different dynamic now, one of leader and subordinate. She cannot remember when it developed or how or why they allowed it to come to this, but she’s grown used to it. “Shall I cry over it, then?” Kommissar retorts, letting her own bag fall to the ground with a satisfying _thud_. “Scream over things that are out of my control? Drown my sorrows and make a fool out of myself?” Her arms are crossed without her even realizing that she’d moved her limbs.

“Any of that would be better than this!” Pieter tells her, his voice a bit too loud for the thin walls of this hotel. She would tell him to lower his voice but for the first time in years, Kommissar wonders if he would listen. “You act as if this doesn’t matter, as if you haven’t based your entire life around DSM for the last three years.”

“One slip-up does not undo all that we have accomplished-”

“You haven’t spent the holidays with your family for the past two years, you barely took a second look at your cousin’s wedding invitation,” Pieter goes on, her words having seemingly fallen upon deaf ears. When his shoulders slump, she mistakenly assumes he’s reached the end of his list of grievances. But his last words, barely a whisper, hit harder than the rest.

“I’ve just realized,” Something in his voice makes her look him in the eye. “I don’t even remember the last time we touched.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Kommissar scoffs reflexively, trying to ward off the realization he’s forcing upon her. “You lifted me just yesterday, when we practiced our new routine for the Puppy Bowl.” She’d thought ahead, considered that their loss tonight might hurt the younger members’ confidence and dedication. But why hadn’t she considered that perhaps Pieter would be most affected by this? Out of everyone, herself included, he has sacrificed the most. It would only follow that he required validation more than any other-

“The routine _does not count_ , Holle.”

Odd, how she hadn’t even realized when he stopped calling her by her given name and started referring to her by her title just like all the others; hadn’t even missed the way he says her name, like the gentle caress it was meant to be and not just an old family name her parents had handed down to her along with their expectations, their demands, their endless lists of qualities one must possess to live up to the family’s reputation.

“Pieter, I…” _I what?,_ she wonders.

“All these years,” Pieter smiles, but it is a hollow thing of little comfort. “I’ve watched you set aside your life, even did the same with mine so that I could be there for you. I thought that eventually, you’d see there was nothing left to prove and you would slow down, maybe learn how to balance DSM and our life. And when we kept winning, I thought we were on the right path.” He turns around then, walks further into the room. She means to follow him but his words keep her rooted to the spot and make her question so many things. “But after tonight, and the thought that this might take us back to the beginning and I’ll have to wait another three years before you remember that I’m your fiancé and not just your _lieutenant_ -” Pieter coats the word in distaste, and the bitterness in his voice finally spurs her to reach out and place a hand on his shoulder. The fact that he tenses under her touch cuts deeper than the Bellas’ victory.

“Now you’re exaggerating,” Holle smiles when his shoulders drop and he turns around to clasp her hand in his own. “How could I possibly have forgotten _that_?”

Pieter shrugs, but the look in his eyes is a fragile, hopeful thing. “Well, I couldn’t be sure. When was the last time you even wore your ring?” Exactly three years ago, the first time they had competed for the world title. But some questions are better left unanswered.

“I am sorry, Pieter,” She says instead, framing one side of his face with her free hand. “Truly, I am. I just didn’t realize…”

A short bark of incredulous laughter escapes him, and they are close enough for her to feel it on her hand. “How did you not realize that we’ve been little more than teammates for the last three years?”

“Well, we do still sleep in the same bed,” Holle reasons, and conveniently leaves out the fact that their sleeping arrangements had only remained as such because she is a creature of habit, and sometimes their best ideas come to them in the middle of the night, when one can’t sleep and blindly gropes about for the other, shaking them awake so that they can discuss ideas.

“Trust me, we would have had this conversation much earlier if you tried to change that.” Pieter smirks.

Holle sighs and shakes her head. “I wish we would have,” She tells him. “I wish I’d known what I was putting you through.”

Pieter reaches up to lace his fingers with hers, pulling her hand down to their sides as he leans in to kiss her. It is barely more than a brush of lips, as he murmurs “at least it is over now” before he pulls back to study her reaction.

She carefully slips her hands out of his, trying and failing to ignore the shadow that flits across his eyes as she pulls away. “Pieter, we can’t… _I_ can’t walk away from this now. This loss,” And the word is harder to say out loud than she thought it would be. “It does not define us now, but if we were to slip, they will trace it all back to this moment, and it would be a true blow to us then.”

“Who cares?” Pieter demands. “Who are _they_ , even? The acapella community? Our fickle supporters who abandoned ship to go wave glow sticks and hum along to some sappy, sentimental pop song?”

Holle thinks of her parents then, the look in her family’s eyes when she told them she was choosing to stick to her music and let her pre-law education go to waste, the sneers and smirks on her parents’ faces when she told them Pieter had asked her to marry him. She had turned her back to her mother’s patronizing laughter that day ( _you’ll grow tired of him sooner or later, when you grow up_ ) and her father’s raised voice ( _you’ll starve before this winter, trying to make something out of that pointless group of yours_ ) and had vowed to prove them wrong, to stick to her choices and do the things she had told them she would. Her family came crawling back to her two weeks after she led DSM to victory at the international championship, and not another word was said about her career. But Holle remembers now that as she stalked out of her family’s house, her heart hadn’t been set on making headlines with her music. With her mother’s laughter still ringing in her ears, the first promise she had made to herself was to prove them all wrong and marry Pieter anyway.

Up until this very moment, she had somehow completely forgotten about that. It raises questions – not about Pieter but herself, and the kind of person she is, and if she’s as selfish as her mother after all – that Holle would rather not give voice to. “All of them,” She answers Pieter, and in her mind she includes her family. “I won’t let us go back to how we were before today, but we need another victory, Pieter. You understand, don’t you? If we could just win-”

“All we do _is_ win,” He growls. “How much more do you want? No one can stay at the top forever; not even you, Kommissar.”

It took no time at all for her to get used to him calling her that the first time around, but in this bubble they’ve somehow barricaded themselves in, the past three years feel like a distant memory and his use of that title is more jarring than hearing her name fall from his lips just a few minutes ago had been.

At a loss for words, she lets her eyes wander until they fall upon the clock. “We’re going to be late for the party,” She declares flatly, turning around to head for the bathroom. There’s the slightest glint of panic in Pieter’s eyes, and he tries to reach out and hold her in place only to have the door slammed in his face.

“Holle…” He sighs, leaning against the door. Twisting the doorknob just for the sake of it only to find it unlocked, Pieter stumbles into the bathroom.

“I don’t want to fight,” Holle says as she steps under the spray of hot water. Already the bathroom mirror is clouded by steam. “So save your cutting words for the Americans.” Pieter sighs as he picks up discarded articles of clothing and stuffs them into the provided laundry bag. The shower curtain is only half-drawn, and their eyes meet when he sits down on the edge of the tub.

“You didn’t lock the door,” Pieter points out unnecessarily.

“I don’t want to fight,” She repeats simply, working shampoo into her hair. “I should be done soon. You’ll need to hurry if you want to shower, and I suggest you do.”

Pieter crosses his arms. “Are you insulting me?” The bathroom is silent as Holle tips back her head to rinse out the shampoo, keeping her lips sealed as the showerhead rains upon her face.

“Get in,” She orders, leaving the water running as she carefully steps out of the slippery tub. The door closes behind her as soon as she’s wrapped up in a towel, and Pieter realizes that things are never going to be the way they once were. Holle has been Kommissar for so long now, he suspects she’ll never be able to fully cast off that particular character. If any part of her personality is at risk, in fact, it seems to be the Holle half of her. By the time he gets out of the shower, she is fully dressed and drying her hair, every inch the Kommissar once more, complete with an aura of _touch me and lose a limb_. And yet...

He realizes two things when she leads the way out of their room and down to the party: one, Holle’s hair is completely down for the first time in years. And two, something on her hand catches the artificial glow of the light when she reaches out to summon the elevator, and he gets a closer look at the familiar object when she jabs at the button for the correct floor.

_Well, that’s bound to raise some eyebrows_. Pieter grins at the thought, and almost swears he catches a smile on Holle from the corner of his eye.

“What?” She asks with a smirk, daring him to say something as she crosses her arms, her ring on full display.

“Did you cut your hair?” He trips over the words, having decided to back down at the last possible second. Holle rolls her eyes and shakes her head at him, a grin lighting up her face for the briefest of moments before they step off the elevator and her mask slides into place.

Even from here, the roar of the on-going celebration reaches their ears. As they approach the party, chants of _Bellas! Bellas! Bellas!_ ring out. Another popular line seems to be _Fat Amy, I love you!_ The ruckus helps them slip in undetected, and by the time Amy – Holle figures she deserves to be called by her proper name now – silences the crowd with a bashful _you guys_ and then a proud _this prime piece of real estate is off the market, woo!,_ she and Pieter have already blended in with the crowd and sneaking up on the rest of the girls is ridiculously easy.

“Congratulations,” She whispers into Beca’s ear as she glides past, chuckling when the girl whips around and focuses large, surprised eyes on her. Pieter smirks, waiting for the girl to embarrass herself again.

“Um, thanks?” Beca says with minimal stuttering as the rest of her team realizes what’s going on and turns to watch their interaction. “I mean, no hard feelings, right? You guys were like, totally kick-ass. And stupid good. And you still get to finish our victory tour and sing at the Puppy Bowl so it’s like, win-win.”

It is, amazingly, the longest string of words she’s managed to piece together in front of Holle. “Victory has granted you some measure of coherence, I see.”

Beca shrugs, and it looks surprisingly casual. This is certainly an unexpected development. “It’s easier to think now that I don’t have to worry about you guys wiping the floor with us. Also, my boyfriend is here so I’m probably not going to do anything stupid like drool on you or whatever.”

“I… see.” Holle nods, trying to hide her amusement. She’s the tiniest bit perplexed, as well. Americans do have such odd sayings. Perhaps sensing that Beca’s short run of keeping herself composed around Kommissar is coming to an end, the redhead steps up and joins their conversation.

“Look at you, being all nice now that we’ve beat you Deutschebags,” Chloe smirks, crossing her arms. “What happened to _don’t try to beat us, we’re the best_?”

“Oh,” Holle waves dismissively. “Just as your leader said – many things are in the past now that we are no longer in direct competition. Besides, that was never meant to be taken seriously. We were partaking in the American tradition of intimidating the competition with words. Hmm,” She turns to Pieter, trusting that he will know what she speaks of. “What do they call it?”

Of course he messes up the phrase, but it is close enough. “Garbage chatting?”

“Trash talking,” Amy amends, stepping forward to join them as well. She shoots Pieter a look. “You should really work on that.”

“I assure you,” Holle smiles pleasantly at the blonde, even though she does not appreciate her tone. “Pieter knows the term; he simply finds it amusing to twist things around. And even if that weren’t the case, English _is_ his third language. How many do you speak?”

“Um,” Amy looks taken aback for a short moment before she starts counting out loud, complete with her fingers. “English… food… aca-speak… wrestling… Bumper,” She looks up at Holle. “Oh, and a bit of Hebrew here and there. Shalom!”

“Impressive,” Pieter says flatly, engaging Amy in a staring contest. Holle pays no attention to it, focusing instead on the redhead who looks to be on the verge of an epiphany.

“Hang on, so all of that was just you trash talking us?” Beca asks incredulously.

“Well-”

Chloe interrupts her; it’s becoming quite tiresome to finish a sentence this evening. “Hold up,” She says, narrowing her eyes at Holle and Pieter. “Are you guys… together?”

“Excuse me?” Holle questions, taken aback by the girl’s intuition. Beside her, Pieter tenses. They’ve never acknowledged their relationship in public, and he can’t seem to figure out how to proceed.

“It’s the language thing.” Chloe persists. “Earlier, he was practically fawning over you and your eight languages. And you sounded like you were defending him, just now when you said that to Fat Amy.”

The blonde in question raises her hand. “Also, are we gonna talk about the bling on her hand? Because that was not there just now. I would know - I was staring at her fingers; they’re like half the size of mine.”

“Dude,” Beca hisses quietly. “You were staring at her hands?”

“At least I wasn’t lost in her eyes like you, flat butt.” Amy retorts.

“Not cool, man,” Beca flushes.

“So like,” The tall, skinny one with a penchant for inappropriate behavior speaks up from the back. “Are you guys doing it or what?”

“Stacie!” Chloe reprimands the girl, utterly scandalized.

Holle can’t help it; they’re a complete riot, and why deny herself a good laugh? “You’re all very entertaining, Bellas. Perhaps aim for a world title in some sort of humor championship next, yes?”

“You are like a circus, but less athletic,” Pieter adds. “A circus of singing clowns.”

“I’ll show you a clown, you-” Amy threatens, only to stop short when Holle holds up a hand.

“Peace,” She orders, earning herself a huff from Amy. The Australian backs down nonetheless. “I would greatly appreciate it, darling, if you stopped picking fights with my fiancé.”

“Holy-”

“Wait, so they _are_ -”

“I was engaged to a ghost once,” Lilly - this one's name she actually remembers, for obvious reasons - says, perhaps a bit louder than she had intended to.

“Um,” Beca turns to Lilly. “We’re going to talk about that later, okay? But also,” She redirects her attention to Holle. “Congrats, I guess? Nice to know you’re like, a real person with actual feelings. I mean, not for my self-esteem because I was 99% convinced you’re actually a robot and I wouldn’t feel so bad about you being perfect because you know, the robot thing would explain it.”

“I am still not entirely convinced that isn’t the case,” Pieter jokes.

“Right?” Beca asks, holding up her hand for a high five. “Dude, she’s creepy perfect.”

“You know,” A man says, appearing out of nowhere as Pieter obliges Beca and slaps his palm against hers. Even without the maroon jacket, Holle quickly recognizes the newcomer as Jesse, Beca’s boyfriend. “I’m beginning to get worried here. You’ve never called _me_ creepy perfect.”

“You’ve got juice pouches and Rocky; you don’t need to be perfect,” Beca quips as Jesse wraps an arm around her waist. Two other people join their little gathering – the youngest Bella, if Holle remembers correctly, and another Treblemaker.

“Hey,” The young brunette says, turning to her leader after a quick look at Holle and Pieter. “A few of the other groups wanna do a riff-off. We in?”

Oh, Holle had almost forgotten about that. Here, perhaps, is a chance to maintain their winning streak.

“Um,” Beca hesitates, turning to consult her Bellas. “You guys up for it?” Words of agreement vary from _yeah, sure_ to  _I'm gonna crush this like a piñata!,_ and Beca shrugs as she turns back to... Emily, yes, the one who sang an original song. “Yeah, we’re in.” The younger girl nods and flits off to tell the other groups. She addresses Holle next. “How about you guys?”

Holle shrugs and turns to Pieter. “Round up the others, if they’re here.” She reverts to their native German, drawing an interesting reaction from Amy just as Pieter agrees and wanders off to find their teammates. But she’s quickly learning that most anything draws an interesting reaction from the woman.

“Oi, no kinky German whispering in front of us,” Amy warns, though her authority is undermined by a suggestive wink.

“ _Amy_ ,” Beca groans. “She was just telling him to get the rest of DSM. Jesus.”

“Whoops, my bad,” Amy half-apologizes, but Holle has moved on.

“You speak German?” She asks Beca, genuinely surprised. Beca shrugs while next to her, Jesse chuckles quietly. Holle wonders what that is all about.

“Like, a tiny bit,” Beca tells her, supporting her point by holding up two fingers separated by the tiniest of spaces. “Most of the time I get it mixed up with the bits of Dutch my grandmother taught me.”

“Vader,” Jesse says, then quickly ducks to avoid the punch Beca aims at him.

“That _is_ a surprise,” Holle tells Beca before she engages Jesse in a conversation. The boy seems alright, as far as she is concerned. And he hasn’t attempted to flirt with her even once, which is more than she can say for any other American boy she has met. No, he leaves the flirting to his girlfriend. “Will you be joining the riff-off as well? I do not see the rest of your team around.”

“It’s only Benji and I,” Jesse tells her after a brief pause, seemingly surprised by her sudden interest and polite tone. No doubt the Bellas have fed him all sorts of stories and warnings about her. Holle cannot fault them; her tongue _had_ been a bit sharper than usual around the Bellas during their previous meetings. “We came to support the girls. But yeah, we’re gonna do it,” He announces, much to the confusion of the Bellas.

“Dude, there are two of you.” Beca points out. “Even the Canadians have more people.”

“It’ll be fun,” The other Treble – Benji, Holle surmises from Jesse’s earlier words – smiles, enthusiasm leaking out of his very being. The boy has been nothing but an overeager, energetic puppy every single time Holle has laid her eyes upon him. It is pleasant, yet equally suspicious. Doesn’t he ever get tired? It is unnatural.

“Yes,” Holle nods, her face devoid of a smile but her voice pleasant enough. “Fun.” She does not see the need to announce DSM’s inevitable victory; the time for trash talking is over, and perhaps she should employ the small amount of humility she has a bit more often. Besides, it will be amusing to watch the Bellas sputter and stutter when they unexpectedly lose.

Pieter returns then with eleven of their members, and steps back into his place by her side. “As requested, Kommissar.” He announces, handing her a drink. It is not so jarring, this time, to hear him refer to her by her title. Perhaps it is because in that moment she _is_ Kommissar, assessing her singers, taking note of those who seem a bit inebriated, those who can’t be bothered to hide their distaste at their close proximity to the Bellas and more importantly, those who are missing.

“Dude,” Beca speaks up, and Holle wonders if this means the girl thinks of them as her friends now, referring to Pieter the way she addresses her friends. “Even you call her that?”

Pieter frowns at her. “Why would I not? It is her title.”

“Yeah, but… I just figured you’d call her by her name since, you know,” Beca shoots a not-so-subtle look at Holle’s ring, garnering the attention of a few DSM members. They begin conversing amongst themselves. The older ones, the ones who were friends with Holle and Pieter in university, are glad to see the ring once more. The newer ones are utterly lost, having seen nothing but professionalism between their leaders. “Wait,” Beca turns to her. “What _is_ your name, anyway?”

“What?” Chloe gives voice to the question nearly every Bella seems to be asking.

“Seriously?” The tall one – Stacie – huffs. “Come on, even _I_ know that’s not her real name. It’s a rank.”

Fat Amy – oh, wonderful, they’ve influenced her into using that distasteful nickname even in her mind – turns to shoot Stacie a questioning look. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” Stacie simply shrugs.

Beca ignores her Bellas, expectant eyes trained on Holle. “But I do so enjoy the names we have for each other,” She drawls. “You are the kleine maus and I am… oh, a number of flattering things. I cannot pick just one; you are so generous with your compliments.”

“Well,” Beca huffs, crossing her arms. “It’s not my fault you’re stupidly perfect.”

“You know,” Holle tells Jesse. “I am beginning to see what it is you spoke of,” To Pieter, she says accusingly: “you have never fawned over me this way.”

It takes Pieter a moment to get over the shock of her playful tone. “You would never have kept me if I were a simpering fool. Or, how do the Americans say it? Ah, whipped.” He looks particularly proud of himself.

“I suppose,” Holle shrugs, ignoring the stares from the Bellas and even their own teammates. She has wasted enough time fretting over what people think of her; let them stare. Perhaps she will feel differently in the light of day, when DSM gets back on the road and she must commit herself fully to being their leader once more. But for tonight, she cares more about the smile that lights up Pieter’s eyes whenever she speaks as Holle and not Kommissar. The distinction reminds her of something.

“Holle,” She tells Beca, who does not seem to understand that this is the answer to her forgotten question. “My name is Holle.”

“That’s,” Beca struggles to articulate her thoughts. “That’s a _huge_ difference.”

Just then, a voice rings out. “Welcome to the riff-off!” A man speaks into a microphone, dragging out the single syllable of his last word.

“Dude,” Beca turns to her boyfriend. “Is that Justin the Sidekick?”

“Hey,” Jesse squints, training his eyes upon the man a fair distance away from them. “Yeah, that’s him.” He shares an incredulous laugh with Beca and their friends. “I _knew_ I heard something about him joining the acapella league.”

Holle shares a questioning look with Pieter, who merely shrugs as they follow the Bellas’ lead and migrate towards the center of the room. The rest of DSM falls in line behind their leaders.

“We’re doing this Barden-style but with a twist so listen up, everyone,” Justin announces. “You can cut in anytime you want, you just have to match your lyrics to the song being sung. The twist: there are no categories this time, so there is _no_ excuse for losing!” Everyone cheers in agreement.

“Two rules, folks: no originals,” Justin turns to the Bellas. “Sorry, ladies, but it’s not fair if you can just make up songs that match.” Everyone laughs good-naturedly at that while the Bellas shrug and concede the point. “And two, if ten songs go by without your team contributing at least once, you’re out! It’s a simple game, folks. Stick to the rules or you’ll be,” He claps twice, and the Bellas and Treblemakers join in with matching claps and grins. “Cut off!” They boom together. It must be a Barden thing, Holle concludes. At least it is better than the eccentric American man and his gong.

“Let’s riff!” Justin declares as the groups fall into line, each team clearly divided. Holle counts seven teams, if one were to take into account the two-man group representing the Treblemakers. “In honor of the championship, the Bellas get to go first!”

The Bellas turn in sync, forming a small circle as they duck their heads and whisper amongst themselves. “Dude, _seriously?”_ Beca hisses.

“Come on,” Holle can just make out Chloe’s whisper. “For the good old times.”

“Hey,” Amy speaks in a normal tone, making it easier on the other groups as they try to eavesdrop. “As long as I get to solo, I’m good.”

“Fine,” Beca huffs as the girls straighten up and turn back to face their competition. They jump right into the song, singing the words ‘ _turn it around’_ multiple times before Amy jumps in.

“ _Turn the beat around_!” She commands as the others sing back-up. Holle quickly recognizes the song and informs her team of her song choice. “ _Love to hear percussion_ ,” Amy keeps singing. “ _Turn it upside down, love_ -“

“ _Love the way you lie_ ,” Holle sings, leading her team forward. “ _I love the way you lie_.” The Bellas groan and fall back.

Pieter steps up by her side and starts rapping Eminem’s verses. “ _I can’t tell you what it really is; I can only tell you what it feels like; and right now there’s a steel knife in my windpipe.”_ Beca walks forward, anticipation in her eyes as she waits. “ _I can’t breathe but I still fight while I can fight_ ,” Pieter continues, undeterred. “ _As long as the wrong feels right it’s-_ ”

“ _It’s going down, fade to Blackstreet_ ,” Beca cuts in, eyes bright. Pieter seems taken aback, and Holle can see why. Beca may not be as a good a rapper as the short-haired one in their group, but she is holding her own without embarrassing herself. The Bellas seem to agree; they cheer Beca on as they step forward. The two Trebles cheer as well. “ _The homies got RB, collab’ creations_ ,” Beca smirks, smug eyes challenging DSM. “ _Bump like Acne, no doubt; I put it down, never slouch; as long as-”_

A collective groan is heard when the Philippine team steps up and cuts in with a Justin Bieber song. “ _As long as you love me, we-”_

The Canadian group quickly starts a rendition of an Arcade Fire song. “ _We stood beside a frozen sea; I saw you out in front of me; reflected light, a hollow moon; oh Orpheus, it’s over too soon_.”

The song reaches its end, and just like that the round is over. Having run its course with only five songs, Justin decrees that no team shall be eliminated this round and promptly launches the next, and so they go on.

To no one’s surprise, DSM and the Barden Bellas are two of the final three teams standing. To _everyone’s_ surprise, the Treblemakers have managed to survive seven rounds with only two members. And the crowd goes crazy when the Bellas are cut off for using an original song (they explain later that they play the song so often they had forgotten it is one of Emily’s) and DSM goes head to head against the formidable duo, Jesse and Benji. The Trebles last three rounds before DSM wins, but they are more excited about finishing in second place than DSM is about their victory.

“Shut up,” Beca glares at her approaching boyfriend, arms crossed. Holle watches their interaction with interest as Pieter works the crowd to a frenzy and gets them to chant _DSM, ja!_ on an endless loop.

“Just like old times, huh, Bellas?” Jesse smirks.

“Dude,” Beca drops her arms back to her sides, uncharacteristic concern seeping into her voice. “You sound just like Bumper. Should we get you to a hospital or something?” This draws laughter from their friends, with the exception of Amy.

“No one gets to make fun of my boy toy!” She protests furiously before dropping the act and slipping on a grin. “Except me, ha!”

Holle observes the Americans, and compares them to her own team later on in the evening. She has held DSM up against countless others time and again, and she has never found them wanting. They are the best, after all. But tonight, she wonders if maybe they can’t take a few pages out of the Bellas’ book. More specifically, if she can’t take a few pages out of Beca Mitchell’s book. The younger girl might be a flustered mess around her, but she seems to have achieved what neither Holle nor Kommissar could: she has _everything_ , and she has found a balance that enables her to achieve it all without sacrificing one thing for the other.

It is a thought Holle finds her mind lingering upon all night, and even the next morning.

For the first time in three years, she had not gotten out of bed the minute she woke up. She sits, instead, close to the center of the bed, her arm pressed against Pieter’s as she scrolls through different entertainment sites on her tablet. The Bellas made nearly every front page, having secured the very first win for their country. Meanwhile on Youtube, grainy footage of their riff-off has amassed a million views within hours of it being uploaded, and the comment section is full of people claiming that this is a true measure of talent and DSM’s victory here matters more than their rank in the competition. And rumors of a possible collaboration between DSM and the Bellas hang heavy in the air, earning a headline on almost every single acapella blog. There are barely any articles about DSM’s loss, no puns about a malfunctioning machine or history repeating itself in the case of Germany vs. America. There must be some out there, Holle knows, but for now, she will take this victory and it will be enough. It is, as the little Bella had said, a win-win.

“Pieter,” She calls for his attention, setting down the tablet.

“Yes, Liebling?” He asks, eyes still focused on his own device.

“I think we should get married this winter.”

Well, that gets his attention. And the look in his eyes before he leans in to kiss her feels like a victory as well, sweeter than any triumph DSM has ever tasted.

**Author's Note:**

> I’d say this fic was born out of desperation and not inspiration, so here’s hoping it’s at least half decent. I know the characterization is shit, so sorry for that. Also I had no idea how to end it and this thing was turning into a monster, hence the cheesy last line. I am so sorry. Here’s also hoping that more people start writing for this ship and soon, because look. Look what this ship has driven me to. I am literally working on four other stories right now, and I dropped all of them to write this because my shipper heart was starving. So if anyone would like to give this a go…
> 
> Holle is pretty far from the names we’ve seen so far (I know Luisa is fanon but I prefer the name Liesel from the excellent The Head and The Heart, which I’m pretty sure was the first ever Kommissar/Pieter fic) but I liked the idea of her given name being something so far from her personality that she adopted the title Kommissar instead. My extensive Googling (yes, I did serious research for this) tells me that Holle means beloved. 
> 
> Well, that’s enough rambling. I hope you guys liked it and if you did, make some music with your mouths, pitches. Or just plain normal sounds. The sound of a keyboard clacking as you hit the little alphabets and string letters together into words and words into sentences and sentences that I take as validation of my poor life choices because writing this is literally the only productive thing I’ve done all month.


End file.
